


Twelve Days of Wincestmas for Nisaki-chan

by Stephanielikes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anthology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephanielikes/pseuds/Stephanielikes
Summary: This is the collected work I did for Twelve Days of Wincestmas 2016 on tumblr. Each chapter is its own piece of work. Rating, and settings vary betweeen them all, but as the name implies, all focus on the relationship between Sam and Dean, usually in a romantic, or sexual way. [No need to be anonymous].





	1. First Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen.  
> First Kiss.  
> Occurs in December in an unspecified year, but after 2005.

      Dean’s been grumbling the whole walk about how crowded, and illogical the streets of New England are compared to the Midwest, but Sam feels a pang of nostalgia for a time he never knew. The cars, and people they pass look like they could be from any of the towns and cities they’ve drifted through this December, but the stone bridge, and icy, meandering river right before their destination look as if they’ve been ripped from a Dickensian novel. Sam absently narrates a story to himself about heading to the bar for a warming pint, and festive cheer, before settling in at home for a good night’s sleep with, maybe, mystical dreams, and the true meaning of Christmas.

      A patch of black ice on his idealised stone bridge brings reality crashing back into place.

      Dean grabs Sam’s left arm. Sam catches the stone rail with his right hand. Together they stop Sam from ass planting on the concrete.

      “Told you to watch out.” Dean complains, although he doesn’t let go until he’s sure Sam’s footing is returned.

      Sam grunts in reply, brushing pebbles from the scrape on the heel of his palm. He’ll get his beer, but the sleep and sugar plums will more than likely be replaced by exhuming some centuries old asshole from half-frozen ground. That’s assuming anyone in the bar is in a fit state to give them good information; judging by the amount of noise making it to the street, Sam thinks they might be able to spend the night researching.

      Dean’s nose is redder than his lips by the time they’ve elbowed through the entry way, and the door closes. He leans into Sam, shouting that he’s going to grab drinks while Sam should use his height to scout for a table, then Dean's pushing into the crowd.

      Sam checks the main area, and the two side rooms before giving up on finding seats, having never even hoped for a table. If the victims hadn’t all been last seen at this place, he’d suggest grabbing drive thru and heading back to the motel. Sam spots the back of Dean’s head waiting to place an order at the bar. Doing his best to keep his eye on his brother, Sam navigates through the groups, turning to apologize for some accidental jostle every few steps.

      The fact that there are four square feet of open space around Dean as he steps up to order doesn’t raise any flags for Sam. Between practically living in each other’s pockets, and frequently needing to pass sensitive information, he doesn’t hesitate to step close behind, his shoulder pressed against his brother’s.

      “Standing room only!” Sam starts to shout at Dean, but it’s lost in a cacophony of hoots, and whistles.

      A bright red blush creeps over Dean’s cheeks. Sam frowns, looking between the pretty bartender and Dean before seeing it: the wilting sprig of green with white berries tied in bright red ribbon. Sam steps back receiving a push towards Dean for his trouble.

      Gesturing between himself and Dean, Sam flusters attempting to explain to the drunks why they can’t kiss. The entire bar seems joined in banging tables, stamping feet, and chanting, “kiss!"

      "Kiss!"

      "KISS!”

      Someone pushes Dean roughly. He’s not sure who it was, but Sam’s stepping towards the area and shouting. Dean’s hand holds him back. The pressure isn’t heavy, it rarely needs to be. Sam backs off challenging the shover to step up. Dean bunches up Sam’s lapels in his fists and gently tugs. Sam breaks his hellfire glare believing that Dean is going to lead them, somehow, through the crowd, and into the open air.

      Instead, Sam finds his face inches from his older brother’s. Sam’s eyes dart between Dean’s emerald eyes, and freshly wet lips. Dean tugs again, and their lips press together.

      A quick peck might satisfy the crowd, whose chant becomes a deafening cheer, but, caught off guard, Sam instinctively kisses back, opening his mouth, and running his tongue along the seam of Dean’s, tasting lingering whiskey. Dean’s own tongue joins Sam’s. Mingling. Savouring.

      _Dean kisses with his whole body_ , a flushed Sam would think later in the shower.

      Dean keeps one hand tightly holding Sam’s jacket. The other hand slips inside, gently brushing down Sam’s side, stopping on Sam’s hip, and softly pulling all of Sam closer. He rocks into each push together, a subtle thrust where even his chest brushes against Sam’s.

      They stay locked until Sam needs to pull away for air, or suffocate in bliss.

      The patrons that can see, and those for a reasonable radius beyond that, stare in shock.

      “Woo! Yeah!” A deep-throated holler from the back breaks the silence, and the cheering starts again.


	2. Second Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen.  
> Bed sharing.  
> First time.  
> No specific time.  
> Sung to the tune of “Away in A Manager”

                                                                Away in a motel  
                                                                With only one bed  
                                                                The brothers Winchester  
                                                                Look at it with dread  
                                                                The chairs are all hard  
                                                                Bare carpet won’t do  
                                                                The brothers Winchester  
                                                                Both need sleep anew

                                                                “Play Rock-Paper-Scissors?”  
                                                                The younger inquires  
                                                                But the elder brother  
                                                                With other desires  
                                                                Quite nervously suggests  
                                                                “Let’s share it instead”  
                                                                Sammy flusters so sweet  
                                                                Says “Go ahead.”

                                                                Away in a motel  
                                                                With only one bed  
                                                                The brothers Winchester  
                                                                Lay too close their heads  
                                                                Each hesitates a breath  
                                                                Awaiting a sign  
                                                                Then the boys Winchester  
                                                                Their bodies entwine

                                                                Away in a motel  
                                                                With only one bed  
                                                                The brother Winchester  
                                                                Let go of their dread  
                                                                “I love thee, dear brother”  
                                                                One kisses then sighs  
                                                                “Hey, no chick flick moments”  
                                                                whispered reply


	3. Third Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft Mature  
> Sexual encounter.  
> First time.  
> Occurs immediately after 03.07 A Very Supernatural Christmas

      It’s not until the Falcons begin their comeback in the fourth quarter that Dean joins Sam on the couch. They’re both nose blind to the air fresheners by that point. The half gallon of egg nog abandoned in favour of passing the rum bottle between them. The weight of unspoken words dissipates as they become more willing to express them, but less able to articulate.

      Dean takes a pull of rum, and presses the bottle against Sam’s chest. Their hands grazed countless times tonight in similar exchanges, but Sam lingers this time. He brushes fingertips over the pulse of Dean’s wrist. The touch sends tingles out to Dean’s nails, and he lets his grip on the bottle loosen, forcing Sam to grab hold of it, or be drenched in sticky liquor.

      Wiping his suddenly sweaty palm on his thigh, Dean tries his best to keep focused on the game. His blood has other ideas, rushing to everywhere but his brain, letting his mind wander. He flinches when the glass bottle thuds against the wood laminate.

      “Dean, I -” Sam trails off.

      Dean feels the earnest expression, the soppy eyes, and grim mouth, without turning to look. Ignoring his brother, he leans forward and yells at the TV. When he leans back, only a hand’s width of space is left between them. Always a touchy drunk, Sam puts his hand there, and rubs circles on Dean’s thigh with his pinky.

      Dean manages to hold out for an entire play before he grabs Sam’s hand in his own, and squeezes. Sam stills, and Dean sees the Falcons tie the game with a little less than five minutes left. He doesn’t take it in though, too busy concentrating on how he’s got Sam’s hand wrapped in his, and hasn’t been rebuked. He’s lost in the smoothness of Sam’s skin against his palm. How it should be pocked with scars after years of fighting, but it’s irresistibly soft under his callused fingertips.

      Moments pass before Dean feels a twitch in Sam’s hand. Dean lets go with a jerk.

      “De-”

      “Shhh.” Dean waves Sam silent.

      “You-”

      Dean slaps his hand over Sam’s mouth. While he has no clue what Sam could possibly be about to say, Sam’s voice sounding as foggy as Dean’s thoughts, Dean knows Sam talking won’t lead to anything good.

      Only minutes remain in the game that Sam suggested they watch, and Dean is doing his damnedest to pay attention to. Dean keeps his hand over Sam’s mouth, but slackens his hold. With the Falcons ahead by only three, the Cardinals make their bid for field goal range, and Sam glides his mouth along Dean’s palm, wraps his tongue around Dean’s pinky, then sucks it into his mouth.

      “Oh,” Dean sighs. His eyes fall shut, and hips buck upwards. “Fuck.”

      The sensible thing to do would be to remove his finger from his drunk little brother’s, hot, wet mouth, and put him to bed, but Dean dropped sensible in a watery puddle of mud seven months ago, and has been drowning it in booze, fighting, and fucking ever since. His brain freezes on the last word.

      Dean shifts in his seat, looking back at Sam, and starts to slide his finger in and out. The wetness on his finger, and the pinkness of Sam's lips grows with each plunge. Sam hums around him, and a groan escapes Dean in return. Sam swirls his tongue around the tip. Dean curses, reclaims his pinky, and sits back on the couch. His eyes clenched shut, he spreads his legs in a vain attempt to eliminate the shameful friction.

      When the weight beside him disappears, Dean’s convinced Sam’s about to walk out, and can’t blame the kid. Dean’s panting. He should say something. A joke to break the tension. An apology for getting worked up when Sam was clearly just trying to annoy him - which is what brothers do; they don’t finger fuck each other's mouths.

      Alarmingly, Sam straddles Dean, settling his weight on Dean’s thighs. Dean grinds up into the pressure before resisting. Sam holds Dean’s face between his hands, but Dean refuses to look. He tries to steady his breathing as he feels Sam lean nearer. Dean flicks his tongue over his lips, and it’s over. Sam captures his mouth in a kiss. Dean surges up into it, all of it. His hands, previously fisted tight to keep from grabbing, glide up under Sam’s shirt, and Dean scrapes his nails down Sam’s back.

      Sam gasps, breaking the kiss, exposing his neck to Dean. Dean bites, and sucks, and kisses, tasting the salty sweat, pushes Sam’s body closer to his own, holds Sam’s hips, and thrusts up.

      “Fuck. Shit. Fuck,” are all the words he can say between pants before Sam is taking his breath away again. Sam’s tongue finds a home in his mouth. Dean squeezes his brother’s ass, pulls at the cheeks, and thinks about how badly he wants. How bad it is that he wants. Finally sees an upside to being damned to Hell already.

      Sam looses Dean’s belt buckle, and pops open the button on his jeans, thumbing the zipper down.

      “Sammy.” Dean whimpers.

      Fingers work their way into his boxers. Bare skin against bare skin. Hot, and aching for more, Dean can barely hold back. Sam nips at his ear.

      “You - want you.” Sam breathes out, rocking his hips and working his hand closer. “Dean.”

      Like a damned pimply teen, Dean curses and cries out, burying his face in Sam’s neck before he can be embarrassed.


	4. Fourth Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature.  
> Vacation.  
> Established relationship.  
> The action takes place at a vague time, in between hunts, and world ending tragedies.

      Between Dad, Bobby, Rufus, the now extinct Campbell clan, and a few monsters, it’s a good bet to say that Sam and Dean Winchester have inherited enough hidden cabins to make Ted Kaczynski jealous. Places where one can hide from intuitive law enforcement, recoup from bad hunts, or lure particularly nasty entities to and minimize the body count. Over the years they’ve let others know of most of the locations; a fellow hunter here; a would-be victim there. Sure, it makes these safe houses a little less safe for them, but self-sacrifice goes with the job, and no one does it better than a Winchester.

      There is one that they’ve kept a secret.

      Made from wood logs, and slates, the weather stained cabin sits in a little clearing surrounded by evergreens. More of a way point than a destination, no roads, or paths lead directly to the little lodge. Three steps lead up to the door which has a window on either side. The whole place has six windows, two on each broadside, and one on each narrow. Dean complains incessantly about the strategic disadvantage presented by so many windows if anything tracked them there.

      Inside, what started as a single room with a rickety bed, waste bucket, and some nasty hooks, slowly transformed into a comfortable studio. The rickety bed exchanged for a different one with fewer busted springs and blood stains. The waste bucket Sam replaced with a small bathroom, including walls, what Dean calls a “damned hippie” toilet, and a basin, just wide enough to stand in and sponge off. Dean converted the fireplace into a wood burning stove, and re-purposed the hooks for pots and pans. Kerosene lamps and flashlights provided illumination after dark. Cherry wood stain provided the almost hidden sigils of protection. All told, it took them about five years, and months of hard labor to get to where it is now. Sam wants to look into solar power, and rain water plumbing, but it’ll wait.

      In the late afternoon grey, Dean chops firewood outside. It’s not an ideal time to be starting, but the hike up from the closest trail takes the better part of a day, and they know what it’s like to go a night without. Sam steals the first armload as soon as it’s split. Smoke rises lazily from the chimney not long after.

      About 30 minutes in, Dean hits his stride. The temperature plummets as the sun sinks lower behind the clouds, but he sheds his coat, and rolls up his sleeves. His toes feel as if they’ll never be warm again while sweat pours down his heated cheeks. Sam might come out again to stock up, but Dean doesn’t notice. It’s rare that he’s sore in a good way. Aches because he got knocked into one more wall by yet another monster, and re-broke another rib. Creaks because there’s a finite number of times one can put their body through the wringer before it gives out. Stiffness because he’s older, and slowing down, even if the enemy isn’t. Now his body burns with life; his muscles twitch in the few moments between one action and the next. The sun drops lower still.

      Darkness surrounds Dean on all sides but one. Orange light glows from the cabin. Standing on the down slope, he can just see Sam through the window. His head is bent, and his floppy brown hair blocks his beautiful profile. Dean smiles, and puts up the ax before trudging the short distance inside.

      Sam’s hunched over a dusty tome, a half-eaten grilled cheese forgotten to his right.

      “Hey, asshat, why didn’t you call me in for dinner?” Dean toes out of his boots at the door.

      “I did.” Sam flips the page.

      “Then why didn’t I know?” Dean asks stealing a sip of Sam’s lukewarm coffee, cringing at the amount of sugar.

      “You were busy.” Sam shrugs, unsurprisingly aloof if he thinks Dean ignored him.

      Dean grabs the sandwich meant for him, and looks at the pots on the stove. Two stock pots of melting snow. Another smile creeps onto Dean’s face. It’s bath water for him. “You make a good little housewife. Well, not little, but you get the point.”

      “Haha.”

      “Yeah, you love it.” Dean swallows the last gooey bit of grilled cheese, and then huddles in a corner to take off his sweat drenched clothes. He’s not completely hidden from all the windows, but it’s narrowed down to one - two with a perfect angle.

      He removes his flannel, socks, and belt before Sam’s arms wrap around him, and stop him from removing his pants. Sam’s mouth blankets his pulse, and gently sucks. Dean bites his lip, reaching up to run his hand through silky hair.

      “Come on, man, that’s not fair. I’m all sweaty and gross.”

      “Sweaty, not gross.” Sam licks at Dean’s jaw.

      Sam pulls Dean from his corner, and shoves him down on the bed. Sam climbs on top, and sits over Dean’s hips, leaning down for a quick peck on the mouth before devouring Dean’s neck in nips and kisses. Dean would’ve liked to clean up first, but he prefers nothing over Sammy. He uses being under Sam to his advantage, managing to rid Sam of his two shirts, and belt before Sam stops him at the jeans.

      Dean pushes up on his elbows, as Sam clambers off. Their lips are both red, and cheeks pinked, but a blush flushes down Sam’s clavicle. Dean frowns as he moves to the edge of the bed to get Sam in arm’s reach again.

      “I wanted you to walk in and see, but it was too damned cold.” There’s a note of accusation in Sam’s voice. “I thought you’d like it, but, if you don’t, you can’t ever say anything about it, ever.” Sam fiddles with the button to his jeans, and Dean can’t take his eyes off it. Dean reaches out, and tugs Sam a few steps closer. Sam holds Dean’s wrists, trapping his brother’s hands to his hips. Dean could lean in and pop that pesky button open with his mouth.

      “I mean it. Not tomorrow, or three weeks from now, or in ten years.”

      “I won’t.” Dean would agree to climb a ladder to the moon at this point.

      “Not even as a joke.”

      “I swear on my life.”

      Sam glares at him.

      “I swear on your life then.” That seems to satisfy Sam, and he lets go of Dean’s wrists. Sam steadies himself with Dean’s shoulders, and looks at the ceiling.

      Dean blames the tremble in his hands on chopping enough wood for a week, and not on how excited he is to see what Sam’s hiding. He pushes the button through the hole, and only bare skin peeks out at him. Sam’s navel presses back as he lets out a held breath. Dean licks his lips, and carefully lowers Sam’s zipper. Halfway down and still just skin, which Dean worships, but wouldn’t get Sam all in a tizzy. Right below there though, a line of soft pink stands against the golden skin.

      “Jesus, Sammy.”

      “Just Sam will do.”

      Dean can’t respond, as he nuzzles his face in and kisses, one lip on silken skin, the other on satin panties. It takes all of his will power not to rip Sam’s jeans down, but Dean wants to unveil it slowly. Take the time to appreciate each detail, on the off chance the sum makes him blow his load.

      In that vein, Dean circles his hands in Sam’s waistband, sliding the pants down a few spare inches. Shiny loops pop out. Running his thumbs over the knots on the bows, Dean notes, there’s no stiffness to it, no extra stitch of thread, or fabric glue to make them hold. Sam tied these, and with a tug Dean could undo it all. He chooses to pull Sam’s pants down further instead.

      Matching pink broad thread is basted along the leg seams, appearing to hold on the-

      “Fucking lace.” Dean whimpers.

      -Embroidered pink lace, laying delicately against Sam’s hips. Dean glides the lace between his fingers. The time for savoring is past, Dean pushes Sam’s jeans to his ankles, and slaps Sam to get him to step out of them.

      After throwing his undershirt off, Dean slings an arm around Sam’s waist, and grabs behind his knee with the other, drawing Sam to him. The supple fabric rubs his chest, as Dean kisses the deep V of his brother’s abs.

      Sam lets out a relieved laugh, and tries to keep his feet while Dean’s mouth explores the lines of his panties.

      “Jesus, Dean!” Sam yelps when Dean swivels and drags him down.

      “Just Dean will do.” Dean winks with a smile, standing up over Sam. Dean unzips and starts to push his own jeans off.

      “Don’t.” Sam stops him with a word. “I think it’d feel nice if you kept those on - the different textures.”

      Dean nods, then spreads Sam’s knees apart to crawl between them, mouthing his way from navel to neck. Gently curling Sam’s hips so he can reach his brother’s honeysuckle mouth, Dean slides his tongue in. Leaning back on his heels, Dean lets his hands wander down Sam’s chest, around his waist, and grabs two handfuls of ass to squeeze. Sam arches up. Dean looks down at Sam with a pang of guilt, imagining his brother, laid out as he is, waiting for Dean to come in and find this exquisite delicacy for dinner. Guilt loses to ravenous desire when Sam grinds on Dean’s groin. The kid wouldn’t know how to play fair if it bit him in the ass - Dean knows from long experience.

      “What should I do about these?” Dean twists his fingers into the bows. “Hmm? Should I slip these knots, and flip you over? Then your pretty cock can rub against them while I take you from behind? Or maybe I’ll pull them up to your thighs, and throw your legs over my shoulder, and hit it deep. I could lick, and suck you off through them until you’re as wet as a girl.”

      Sam chews on his lips, letting out little whines for each of Dean’s ideas. 

      “You did say it was for me though. So I think, what I’d like best,” Dean grips a leg seam, and pulls it back, careful not to pop the stitching, “is to slide them to one side, and slip inside while you’re wearing them. Feel that nice, soft satin rubbing between us while you come undone under me.”

      “Please.” Sam whispers on a breath.

      Dean smiles. “Yeah. I thought so.”

      With the night’s festivities, Dean’s sure to be sore in the best way. The windows, and the world beyond them are quickly forgotten. They keep the little cabin a secret for themselves, and it keeps their secret to its self. Because no one does the job better than a Winchester, and no one does a Winchester better than the other Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth and a Half Day of Wincestmas: The first Christmas after they become lovers, Dean wears a mistletoe belt buckle. The more Dean tries to get Sam to acknowledge it, the more vehemently Sam ignores it. It's not until Dean's given up hope that Sam drops to his knees in front of Dean, kisses the buckle, and then the bulge below.


	5. Fifth Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen.  
> Coda? Fix it?   
> Canon amount of mutual pining?  
> Occurs directly after 12.02 Mamma Mia

      Six beer bottles line the floor beside where Dean hides in the kitchen, one for each of the photos spread across his outstretched thighs. Dean isn’t buzzing, hell, he’s not even back to par yet. The internal argument over where to get his next drink starts when he swigs the dregs of the last beer. There’s more beer in the fridge, except it’s clear beer isn’t cutting it. There’s scotch in the library, but he’ll have to pass Mom’s room to get there. The thought of bumping into Mom while searching for booze disgusts him.

      "Pathetic.“ He snarls, swiping the photos off his legs, and getting his feet under him. If only he hadn’t finished off the whiskey days ago; but, then, he’d been dealing with his mother’s resurrection, and his inability to find his brother. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose then swipes his hand over his face, and back through his hair. He’ll go to bed, he decides.

      When he picks them up, three in each hand, the bottles clink together. The crystalline noise echoes in the dark room. Dean cringes, though the halls have been free from the shuffling of others for an hour. He shifts the garbage around so the bottles settle underneath the newspapers Mom had to have. Most of the photos landed face down, but two laughing boys are clearly visible. Dean flips it over too, scooping the pile up as one, and stuffing them all into his back pocket.

      Dean’s not surprised, on entering the hall, to see light coming from under both occupied bedroom doors. He hesitates which direction to go: left towards Mom at the end of the hall, or right, passed Sam, directly to his own. His mind’s half decided, but his body’s leaning left, when that light goes dark. Any connection beyond blood they share is tentative. Dad might’ve realized Dean hadn’t said goodnight yet, and waited. Nine out of ten times, if he hadn’t been drinking. For Mom, it's only been a few weeks since she was tucking Dean in, since all her goodnights were done before she could even go to her room. It's enough to make Dean rethink the scotch briefly, instead, he nods, and heads for his bed.

      Dean nearly bypasses Sam’s door entirely before stopping. Sam said good night in the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hand for the mother he never knew. Dean knows he hadn’t fooled his brother for a moment when he said he’d be in bed as soon as he’d tidied up. Dean raises his knuckle to knock, but thinks better of it. Sam’s body is healed, and nothing Dean can offer will fix the unseen trauma - not until he restocks the liquor supply at any rate. Deciding not to disturb his brother is easy, walking away from the door that separates them turns out to be more difficult. The second hand on Dean’s watch gets louder every moment he doesn’t move. No noise filters under the door, merely light. Sam probably fell asleep with the light on. Dean should go.

      ”Just… come in, dude.“ Sam sounds small through the door. Dean can recall all the times Sam’s said those same words, and he’s walked away anyway; all the times he wishes he had gone in; all the times he hoped Sam would come out to follow.

      Dean opens the door wide enough to slip in, not speaking until it clicks shut behind him. ”Hey.“

      ”I can’t sleep.“ His brother says simply. His eyes don’t leave the rhythmic sway of the ceiling fan. ”The stuff they did…“

      _I can’t even imagine._ If they existed on the same plane as a normal family, the words that jump into Dean’s head might be consoling, but here they’re outright lies. Dean can imagine. Worse, he can remember what it’s like to have been in Sam’s position, and, even worse than that, what it’s like from the other side.

      ”Sorry.“ He replies meekly, letting all the reasons fill the empty air. Sorry I didn’t find you sooner. Sorry I didn’t spend every minute you were gone searching. Sorry I let them take you. Sorry I didn’t protect you. Sorry I dragged you back into this life. So many times, so many ways: I’m sorry.

      ”I warned them.“ A mirthless smile ghosts Sam’s mouth. ”Nothing their minuscule, finite, human brains could think of could ever even scratch what I endured in the Cage, but they had to try, and try, and when they failed…“

      Not even the shift of the mattress under Dean’s weight is enough to bring Sam’s eyes down.

      ”It wasn’t enough to cut, and burn, freeze me. They had to, just, fucking, _had to_ mess with my head. Then out of nowhere, when they say they’ve run out of options, Dean shows up?“

      Dean frowns. Why would Sam refer to him in the third person when he’s sitting right here? Sam’s giant boot poking into his hip and everything.

      ”Then mom, who’s been dead for decades, and we’re free to go? I’ve run until my feet were worn to bones and woken up back with him.“

      ”It’s okay.“

      ”She can’t fool me. Not twice. Not-“

      Dean grabs Sam’s hand, digs his nail into the palm where a scar once stood. Admittedly, using an old scar that should be there but isn’t because of ‘angel magic’ isn’t the most solid plan for someone questioning reality, but it’s all Dean can think to do.

      ”Ah!“ Sam finally looks into Dean’s face, with anger, but Dean takes what he can get.

      ”Remember this?“ Dean presses harder. A slickness wells up under his thumb; it might be sweat or it might be blood, but Dean can’t care. ”Stone one. Right here. Remember?“

      Sam tries to yank his hand away, wrenching Dean almost into his lap.

      ”Not if they can manipulate what’s in my head.“ He hisses.

      ”Stone. One. Me. You gotta, Sammy. Got it?“

      Sam’s eyes flare, and it’s always in these moments that Dean thinks he can see the darkness his brother was forced to carry glaring out. They soon soften, though, and close. ”Okay.“

      ”Okay?“

      ”You got me out. You can kick my ass. You. Stone one.“

      Dean stops gouging Sam’s palm, but doesn’t let go of his hand. He rubs the deep indent, happy to see the slickness as only sweat. A perverse urge to press his lips there, and feel Sam’s hand steady against his cheek creeps into the back of his mind.

      Almost as if Sam reads it, he chuckles.

      ”What?“ Dean asks sharply, on the defensive.

      "Did you ever see The Hunger Games? Not the first one, but the later ones?"

      "Erm." Truth is, Dean hasn’t seen them in their entirety. He’s caught bits on motel network TV, usually while trying to find _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ That’s the truth, or it would be, if lying through omission wasn’t a thing. A thing that Sam strongly believes to boot. The whole truth would be, he hasn’t seen them, but he has read them. All of them. More than once.

      Dean’s weighing how much truth to share at this particular juncture, when he catches Sam peeking at him with one eye, and a knowing smirk pursing his lips.

      ”Let’s just say I know the gist, smart ass.“

      ”Okay. Did you ever catch the gist of the game Katniss, and the blond dude play?“

      ”Peeta?“

      ”Ha!“

      ”Shut up.“ Dean’s smiling despite himself. ”And yes.“

      ”Do you ever think it’s messed up that we basically play the same game as teens in a post-apocalyptic novel?“

      ”Nah. We technically live in post-apocalyptic reality. Or aborted apocalyptic reality.“

      ”Yeah.“ Sam’s eyes are open and on Dean. He curls his fingers around Dean’s thumb. ”Plus, you have the maturity of a teenager, so…“

      ”Funny, but don't quit your day job.“

      Sam goes quiet again, a contemplative kind of quiet. Dean waits, because he knows it’s all he needs to do. They both look down at their joined hands.

      ”Would you stay until I fall asleep, like when we were kids?“

      Dean realizes Sam can’t see his nod, and says ”Ye- yes. Sure. Yeah.“

      ”Thanks.“

      Dean nods again, and stands up. He briefly notices that they haven’t looked at each again, but pushes back all the obtrusive, little thoughts as to why. Sam’s discarded boots hit the floor with a thud. Dean takes his off too. He hits the lights, and allows his eyes time to adjust. Sam’s charging phone glows faintly on the side table, giving a vague outline around the room. Sam's silhouette shifts. Dean knows how Sam is curled up, even if he hasn’t seen it in twenty years: on his side, bottom arm under the pillow, upper arm curled over his chest, knees slightly pulled up, back gently curved, like a kid who can’t quite bring themselves to give up the comfort of the fetal position.

      Once upon a time, Sam curled up as he was - is - fit perfectly in the contour of Dean’s body. Since then though, Sam's grown a foot and a half, and Dean hasn't. Determined to keep his agreement, Dean crawls back onto the bed, and spoons up behind his brother. To Dean’s unending joy, Sam almost fits. Dean can’t rest his chin on the top of Sam’s head anymore, but everything else aligns. He wraps his top arm around and under, resting his hand flat against Sam’s chest, using the other to prop his head up and watch over his brother.

      They’re both drifting off when Sam jerks. Dean’s instantly on red alert, heart pounding, eyes wide.

      ”Mom’s alive?“ Sam’s voice is groggy.

      ”Real.“ Dean smiles. It’s weird, but it’s cool. Mom’s alive. Sam’s safe; even if only for the briefest epoch, Dean is sure nothing can get to him.

      ”You got me out.“

      ”Well, I had help..“

      ”Deeaa..“ Sam groans.

      ”Real.“

      Sam hugs Dean’s arm tightly.

      ”You?“

      ”Stone one.“

      ”Mmm.“ Sam hums, or possibly snores, happily.

      A few minutes pass before the grip loosens. Sam’s breathing evens out, and his heart beats Dean’s favourite lullaby. Waiting until he’s positive Sammy’s asleep, that no supernatural creatures could be watching, and Mom hadn’t snuck out to listen in, Dean places a kiss right where Sam’s jaw meets his ear.

      ”Love you, Sammy.“


	6. Sixth Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hard Mature.  
> New Year's Eve.   
> Established relationship.  
> 31 December 2001.

      Dean slipped out of one shoulder strap, and swung his backpack to the front. Unzipping, he pulled out bolt clippers, smiling wickedly at Sam. Kneeling down to the bottom of the fence, he started cutting.

      Sam bounced on the balls of his feet, a flashlight held loosely in each hand. He kept one eye on Dean, and the other on the house whose property they were trespassing on. Occasionally, he glanced at the gleaming razor wire atop the chain-link.

      "I don’t know if this is such a good idea. Brian said the cops patrol the Rock really heavily on New Year’s"

      "It’s a good thing this isn’t ‘thee Rock’ then." Dean grunted as he clipped another link.

      "It’s an outcrop. If we get picked up, Dad’ll flay us."

      "Listen, you said you didn’t want to sit at home tonight, and you didn’t want to go the bars!"

      "As if being arrested for trespassing is better than being arrested for underage drinking?!"

      "You wanted a special New Year’s." Dean stood up, and rolled back the clipped fencing. "Trust me."

      Sam looked Dean over. Standing in Dad's old jacket, two sizes too big, Dean buzzed with nervous excitement, grinning and waggling his eyebrows under the scrutiny. Sam knew he was lost. It'd been at least a decade since he'd liked ketchup in macaroni and cheese, but only a week since he'd gulped it down as if he couldn't live without it - all because Dean had made it. This was no different. He slapped one flashlight into his brother’s stomach, and slipped through the fresh gap. Dean followed.

      ”Only turn on the light if you can’t feel where to put your next step.“

      "I know."

      "Careful."

      "I got it, Dean."

      They hiked through a bare few metres of woods before they began up the slope. Calling it a climb would’ve been overgenerous. Marred by only a few uncertain footholds, the path took them up a stone hill. A clearing where the incline seemed to give up, hardly higher than the surrounding apartment buildings, almost counted as a peak. Dean dropped the bag, and strode over to the other side, where the ground disappeared.

      "Come look!"

      Sam did as requested, keeping a step further back, and craned his neck out. The precipice dropped unnaturally straight down. In daylight, Sam knew you could see the drill holes and dynamite scars from where they blasted into the rock to accommodate an expanding city.

      "Land it right, and you wouldn’t even break anything." Dean assessed the cliff’s escape potential.

      "Wrong and you’ll break your neck."

      "Don’t land wrong." Dean’s tone mimicked their father’s which he caught and gave Sam an apologetic smile under the moonlight. He checked the time, and went over to his discarded pack.

      Sam looked around. He’d been up on the larger granite outcrop known locally as ‘The Rock’ several times now. It’s pale, speckled stone stained with graffiti; it’s crevasses littered with broken beer bottles, and other, less savory, paraphernalia. Where he stood now shared the same stone, but much fewer accessories. Not completely pristine, though. He toed at a beer can, flattened and long since drunk.

      ”Ta-da!“ Dean held two solo cups in one hand, and champagne in the other. ”Take them. I gotta get the blanket.“

      Sam took the proffered refreshments. The threadbare, thermal blanket Dean pulled out looked suspiciously similar to the one from the last motel they’d stayed in. Dean swept a spot clear with his boot, and laid the blanket out, keeping one fold so they'd be on a double layer. He checked his watch again. Taking his coat off to drape over his shoulders, Dean sat down and beckoned Sam to curl up under the jacket in his arm. Sam hesitated. They’d been in this town long enough that the kids he was bound to run across up here knew Dean as his brother. Patrolling officers might not on sight, but they'd figure it out if Dad had to bail them out.

      "Not to put too fine a point on it, but we have a limited time before my nuts freeze off."

      Shaking his head, Sam went to his brother as he believed he always would. Dean took the champagne bottle.

      ”Hit the light on my watch.“ Dean said with the foil he tore away still between his teeth.

      11:59:37 appeared against a green backlight. Less than a minute remained in 2001. Sam’s stomach dropped. Graduation. What to do after it. His future. It all seemed so comfortably far off until he watched the seconds tick closer to the year that held it all.

      ”Again quick.“ Dean brought Sam back.

      Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight seconds. Seven. Six. Five - Four - 3 - 2. 1.

      PPPPoBLAM!

      The cork flew off into the trees, but fireworks hid the telltale pop. The display took place down near the river a mile or so away. It'd been crowded for hours with people willing to brave the cold for a good view, and vendors hocking cheap memorabilia. Apart from all that, in the stone clearing, the way the fireworks erupted out of no where over the trees, booms echoing off the apartments, made it as though the night sky cheered just for them.

      Sam gawked until Dean jabbed him with the bottle. He held the cups while Dean poured. They tapped the rims together in a silent toast to each other. Leaning forward, Sam watched over the brim while he sipped the fizzing wine. Dean untucked the back of Sam's undershirt. Their current positions stopped Dean slipping a hand down the back of Sam's pants. Dean attempted to make space by tugging back on the waistband. Goosebumps crept up Sam's back as Dean exposed more of his skin. Sam pretended not to notice until the jacket fell back, and Dean pressed in close. Dean's breath warmed Sam as Dean used his nose to nudge Sam's jaw. Sam gave in, tilting his head and exposing his throat. Dean pressed his mouth, full of champagne, to Sam’s pulse, the bubbles bursting between tongue and skin. Sam’s shiver had nothing to do with the cold. Dean swallowed, sucking a mark that faded too fast.

      Dean pulled away to take Sam's cup with his, and set them aside. Between half shouts, and hand gestures, he coaxed Sam to sit across his lap. Sam draped his arms over Dean's shoulders, and drew the jacket back up. He then looked back to watch the fireworks begin their crescendo to the finale. Doing his best to win Sam's attention, Dean trailed his bottom lip, kissing up Sam’s neck, over his jaw. Dean reached between Sam's legs, and rubbed him through his jeans. Sam rocked up into Dean’s hand, and down on his hardness. He turned back towards his brother and caught the last taste of sweetness from the wine on Dean’s tongue. 

      ”Is this what you wanted?“ Dean breathed into Sam’s ear, his sinful mouth exploring wherever it could reach.

      Sam nodded, chasing his pleasure at Dean’s hands. His fingernails tingled sharply on the edge between pleasure and pain. The pressure built up in his gut.

      ”Gotta walk back.“ Panting, Sam pushed back.

      ”Fuck.“ Dean agreed, at a moment’s loss for how to solve their problem. ”Stand up. Pull your pants down.“ Dean must’ve caught the look on Sam’s face. ”Keep your shirt on. We’ll pull the blanket up.“

      Sam hesitated. Dean thrust up against Sam’s ass, and squeezed him through the jeans again. Sam stood up, unbuckling and dropping trou. Dean leaned back, lifting his hips to do the same.

      ”You’re gorgeous.“ Dean jacked himself twice, one handedly sifting through the bag.

      ”Hurry up. It’s freezing.“

      ”Fuck it. We don’t have to…“ Dean reached up, guiding Sam down to ride his bare thighs.

      True to his word, Dean pulled the edges of the blanket around them. Sam pushed the hem of Dean’s shirts up, letting his cock rub Dean’s belly. Dean rutted in the cleft of Sam’s ass. They moved together, their heads close to hear the others moans over the last fireworks. 

      Sam reached his climax first, cutting off his own apology for Dean’s shirt to ride it out. Dean growled, thrusting faster against his little brother, and cursing as he finished not long after.

      ”I hope you brought napkins.“ Sam laughed, catching his breath. "We still have to walk back."

      ”I -“ Dean inhaled. ”I think they’re back at the apartment with the lube.“

      ”You should’ve made me come in my pants. I think it’s in my crack.“

      ”Don’t be a sissy. I’ll walk back commando. Definitely hit my boxers. I can feel it sliding down my thigh. Get up.“

      ”Who’s the sissy?“ Sam slipped off to side, keeping his exposed lower half in the blanket.

      ”Well?“

      ”Well what?“

      ”Did I give you a special New Year’s or what?“

      ”Not bad.“

      Dean threw his soiled boxers at Sam’s face. ”Happy New Year’s, bitch.“

      ”Happy New Year, jerk.“


	7. Seventh Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen.  
> Fluff.  
> Early but established relationship.  
> Occurs any time after the first 10 minutes of 08.14 Trial and Error

      From the instant he laid eyes on it, Sam envisioned the grand project of cataloging, and converting The Men of Letter’s library into digital media, but he hadn’t properly appreciated the full expanse of the bunker’s sprawling halls, and dusty store rooms. If he had a hundred years to devote exclusively to his hobbyhorse, he might make a dent. When his luck runs high, scanning a portion of one of the books improves their mobility while working a case; though typically, he feels pretty lucky when he can devote the odd spare hour here and there.

      When he started, he planned to use the Men of Letter’s old catalog, and simply scan all the information they’d already sorted and referenced. Unfortunately, only six of every ten books could be found where it was supposed to be; two of the ten would be stuffed in a case box in a back room; one shoved haphazardly on a shelf, either by himself or his brother a month ago, or the men who lived here 60 years before. The last of the ten never turned up.

      Not to mention, after finding a plethora of books poorly cataloged, and shamefully referenced, he decided to start an easier approach. The next time he pulled out his wand scanner, and booted up the server, Sam took the first book off the highest shelf, and bent to it. When he finished, he stuck a green Post-It-Arrow on the spine, and threatened anyone who messed it up with spending the next sunny day, sat beside him, fixing it.

      Rarely the world of the supernatural goes quiet, and business runs dry. It’s the third day in a row that Sam’s been able to work on his project, almost without interruption. He finished with the current book of lore, and leaned back, stretching the crick in his neck.

      “Dean?” Sam called. Dean’d been oddly absent, normally a constant waspish buzz in Sam’s ear if he spent more than half a free day in the library. When no answer came, Sam shrugged, and grabbed the next book from his stack. The hardbound text contained roughly a hundred pages from a Reverend Marshal Greenwood. _A Treatise on the Ifrit; Being a firsthand account of their demonic turns, with support from Biblical, and historical documentations._

      Sam inspected the book’s condition. As with the majority of the displayed library, it’d withstood the ravages of time, but about a quarter through, a space between one page and the next, gave it the appearance of missing a few pages. He opened to that spot, and out fell an index card. It happened enough that Sam had started a pile of old bookmarks, and misplaced catalog cards. If the card hadn’t been bright white, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance. But it’s newness gave him pause, and he flipped it over.

      _You know I know I love  you. Don’t te ll anybody._

      The space after the e’s was a bit wider where the typewriter carriage moved too far. Sam smiled, slipping the note in his back pocket before continuing.

 

      After that the bright index cards with the anachronistic typed messages fall out of the books he’s processing regularly. He only read the first one as soon as it fell. The others he pocketed as swift, and silently as he can, to be read by the bedside lamp in the deep dark hours of night.

 

      _Loving you is my job_

 

      _youre  the one re ason I find a way to smile_

 

      _You are  e ve rything to me_

 

      _Your smile  is an invitation for my imagination to go wild ;)_

 

      _Whe n our bodie s are apart I sle e p with you in dre ams_

 

      _I have  love d you in thre e  diffe re nt ce nturies_

 

      _I will always ~~come  f~~ be  the re  for you._

 

      _I love  you in ways I shouldn’t_

 

      Dean sat at the kitchen table, scrolling bleary-eyed through another website on curse negation for objects. One of Dad’s storage units got auctioned off, and they’d been scouring eBay, and the lore for days, taking it in shifts to minimize the damage. An index card flopped down on the keyboard making Dean jump back. He hadn’t noticed Sam walk in. A blush splotched his cheeks as he picked it up, and flipped it over.

_I’ve never lived a day without loving you in every way, and I never will._  
_(p.s. I fixed your E.)_


	8. Eighth Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen.  
> Stuck indoors.  
> Established relationship.  
> No set time.

      When one becomes a hunter, they accept an ever-changing, often, unpredictable amount of danger with each hunt. Making sure they have the right equipment, and that it’s in good enough condition to get the job done is the sum of all their control. There’s no OSHA for hunting, but that doesn’t mean they’re obligated to rush headlong into blatant traps, or other easily avoided hazards. Which is the concept Sam is desperately trying to get Dean to grasp when the Weather Alert goes off on both mobiles. Tropical Storm Merlin is officially Hurricane Merlin.

      Though Dean relents, and steers the Impala down a road leading out of the storm’s path, they’re too late. Between downed trees, and flash floods, the only option is to head back into town, and hope The Heneley’s haven’t finished boarding up the motel, that is, according to the exasperated cop shouting directions over the downpour.

      There’s no doubt both the motel, and the man behind the counter survived worse, and he tells them so. Dean agrees, he’s got no doubt they have. Sam’s stomach drops at the face Old Heneley pulls in response. If there’s one fault Sam can’t overlook in his brother, it’s that Dean thinks he’s a people person when he really is not.

      “Ye can have 7, ‘n park in the middle o’ the lot. That outta keep ye safe from trees n’ power lines. Won’t if there’s mudslides, but ain’t no where here that’ll keep ye safe from that.”

      “No worries. I’ve handled a few mudslides in my time.”

      Heneley turns to the key panel behind him without even a blink of acknowledgment. “Now, it’s a single queen, but I can have the boy help ye pull a cot over, might be a bit wet, but it’ll be better’n the floor.”

      Sam doesn’t know what neurons fail to fire in Dean’s brain that makes him want to dig himself deeper, but whatever it is, Dean will always go for six feet when he could’ve jumped out at three.

      “One bed’s fine. Can’t spoon across two.”

      The man’s staring Dean down, sucking on his teeth as he puts together the exact vulgarities he wants to use to kick them off his property. Sam is ready to beg Heneley, on his knees, to at least let them sleep in the parking lot, when he’s surprised.

      “Room costs double. Keeping the place running in a state of emergency. Ye understand.”

      Dean’s arguing inhale gets cut off by Sam’s elbow to his ribs.

      “We completely understand. We really appreciate this. Thank you.” Dean fumes silently, but at least Sam gets them checked in all the way without further incidents.

 

      In the room, Dean turns on Sam as soon as the door shuts. He’s working himself into a frenzy, so Sam pushes him back against the door, then quells his rage with a kiss. Though Sam’s intention wasn’t to piss Dean off, he’ll happily reap the benefits of feisty Dean. Before their lips part for gasps of air, Dean’s pushed off the wall, pressing hard into Sam, maneuvering them towards the lone bed.

 

      The power failed an hour ago. Their duffles lay abandoned by the door. Their soggy clothes are strewn around the room. Sam rests his head on Dean, listening to the familiar heartbeat. Dean strokes Sam’s hair.

      “You know, we might have to stay like this all night. They say naked is the best way to share body heat.”

      “I think that’s Hollywood bs, but I’m willing to experiment.”

      “Heh.” Dean pauses, pondering. “Don’t get me wrong, I adore sleeping with you, probably my favourite thing in the whole world, except for a really smooth scotch -” Sam smacks his hip. Dean kisses the top of Sam’s head. “The point is if you just want to cuddle, don’t feel like we gotta do the other stuff first.”

      “Okay, Casanova.”

      “I’m trying to be serious, dude.”

      “I know… Thank you. But if I don’t wear you out first, you fidget worse than a preschooler.”

      Dean scoffs at the accusation.

      “I promise, I never instigate something I don’t want. Not with you.”

      “Good.”

      “Good.”

      They sit in comfortable silence for a time before Dean gets up to use the bathroom. When Dean goes back out, Sam’s sitting up, grinning at him. Dean crawls into bed, and pulls Sam back into his arms. Sam’s hand slips under the covers, and below Dean’s waist. Dean drags Sam's hand up, wrapping it around himself like a seat belt. Sam closes his mouth around the bud of Dean's nipple and sucks. Dean aborts a whimper. Hooking a finger under Sam's chin, he lifts Sam's face to his, kisses the tip of Sam's nose, then wraps Sam tightly in his arms.

      It turns into a game. Dean holds his lover, gives soft caresses with tender chaste kisses; Sam does little things to rile Dean up, until it comes to a head, and the cycle begins again.

 

      Merlin moves on by late afternoon, but the boys stayed up into the early dawn, and are still sleeping when there’s a knock on the room door. It wakes Dean, but Sam continues to snore. Dean dons the closest pair of boxers, but doesn’t bother with anything else. The sheets are twisted around Sam in a way that wouldn’t get them arrested for indecency, but leaves no doubt how they spent the evening.

      Dean opens the door wide without checking who it is; Heneley seems the type to kick them out as soon as the roads become passable. Dean’s horrified when Heneley’s kid is the one staring back at him, little sunken eyes flicking deeper into the room. Reflexively, Dean swings the door back in, hiding his brother from view, and most of himself.

      “Yes?”

      “Check out’s in 15, or another night is still double.” The boy recites, his eyes now fixed on the knob.

      “Uh.” They could easily clear out in fifteen minutes, and be back on the road to a possible haunting, but they know closer hunters they could call, and Dean has at least one more round of their new game in him before he’ll concede victory. “We’ll stay another night.”

      “Power’s back up if you could flush the toilet, and run the shower if you’re not gonna use it.”

      “Can do.” Dean tries not to be curt, but still convey it's the end the conversation. The boy doesn’t budge though, he looks around.

      "Dad keeps callin' you 'the brothers in 7.'" 

      “Wha?” Dean sputters; Sam chokes behind him.

      The kid looks directly in Dean's eyes, “I can pull clean sheets from another room for a five.”

      “We, uh, we’re all set. Thanks.” Dean shuts the door.

      Sam cracks up. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath and say something to Dean, but Dean isn’t paying attention to that. Sam’s face lights up when he laughs; his dimples crease his cheeks. Dean stares and thinks they’ll actually need two more rounds to decide a winner.


	9. Ninth Day of Wincestmas: Boys like Flowers like Girls Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen.  
> Gift giving.  
> Established relationship.  
> Occurs in season 11, with reference to season 5.

      Nearly two decades have passed since they were actually here, but only a handful since Joshua brought them to its heavenly likeness. Dean can’t remember visiting the botanical garden in Cleveland, but he recalls them only too well in Heaven. It’s not a visit he’d want to make again in either location, but when Sam turns on those puppy dog eyes there isn’t a force in the known universe that could deny him anything. If Dean went to the Cleveland one on a field trip, as Josh said he did, it would’ve only been to chaperon Sam, at either Sam or Dad’s behest. Gardens, in general, hold a sway over Sam that Dean never understood. He probably couldn’t count the number of times they collected Sam from some greenhouse, or arboretum after a hunt.

      Once they enter, and begin their stroll down a random path, it’s clear to Dean that Sam finds peace in this setting. Sam stands straighter, with his shoulders rolled back instead of forward, and without the line of tension usually strung between them. The corner’s of his mouth tilt up, but not in a conscious smile, merely the natural showing of being completely at ease. Like the nerd he is, Sam reads the names of all the plants that catch his eyes, and shares with Dean any “fun facts” the plaques have. If one of those facts is scent related, even if it’s something about it being putrid, Dean’s brother leans in, and inhales, mindful not to disturb the foliage.

      Dean’s not as calm, can’t think of anything other than his brother that could affect him the same way. He wants to make a joke about how they don’t have the time to stop and smell the roses, but Sam just looks too damned happy, and Dean can’t take that away. However, like the overgrown man-child he is, Dean does loops when Sam spends more than half a minute in one spot. Dean doesn’t stray far, but he does play with all the interactive exhibits, occasionally missing when Sam moves on, and once or twice scolds Sam for wandering off without him.

      It’s the third time it happens that nearly ruins their little day trip. When Dean catches up to Sam, he’s staring at the cluster of bright yellow flowers in front of him, a frown creasing his brow. Dean steps up from behind, pressing his arm against his brother’s. The flowers aren’t just yellow, he notes. Varying red splotches speckle and spatter across the petals with a grim effect.

      “Blood-drop emlets.” Sam says flatly. “Looks like your headboard.”

      Dean begins reading the plaque to see what headboard they’re supposed to look like, when his brain catches up. His headboard. His gut twists. He didn’t even want to come here, but Sam saw the damned sign on the highway, and then went on about how they hadn’t pissed around after a hunt in ages, and wasn’t it a perfect day to be outside and not have to kill anything? Schools were out, and summer camps wouldn’t have started up yet, and if they took the next exit they’d get there a couple hours before close, and might even have the place mostly to themselves. Then the final nail, he’d looked at Dean with his warm, summer pond eyes, and said please.

      Now here they stand, frowning down at some stupidass plant. The tension returns to Sam’s shoulders, Dean feels it in his own, feels the peace slipping away, another memory tainted, a refuge lost to those winged dicks, and the destiny they fought tooth and nail to escape. The anger wells in Dean’s chest. He nearly shouts: Screw the angels right in their halos.

      Risking expulsion if anyone sees, Dean reaches down into the mass and plucks a flower off the stem. Sam doesn’t register what Dean did until Dean offers up the illicit gift to him. He accepts.

      Up close, the red looks more like Sharpie than blood. There’s a soft musky scent that’s quickly lost, but briefly reminds him of Dean’s old leather jacket. Sam looks back at Dean with a small smile, and Dean pulls him into a tight hug. He hugs back, but cradles the flower in his palm to keep it safe.

      Wrapped in his arms, Dean feels Sam sigh against his neck, and the tightness leaves his body. They give a squeeze, then pull back, each with a searching look to make sure the other is okay. They’re so close, Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his face. The only logical step is to plant a soft mouth kiss on Sam’s lips. The kiss is deep, and slow, but over all too quickly. Sam’s contended grin is back. Dean has to stand on tip toes to press a final peck on his brother’s forehead. Sam hides the blossom in his shirt pocket.

 

      Later, and a thousand miles west of Cleveland, they drift through another garden. There they find a flower that blooms as big as Sam’s hand. Dean unabashedly steals one. For when he can’t hold Sam’s, he says. They spend the rest of the visit with their fingers entwined, but Dean doesn’t give the flower up.


	10. Tenth Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen.  
> Fluff without Plot.  
> Established relationship.  
> Not set time.

      Sam drives by the large grocery store that shares a parking lot with Wal*Mart, only to find the next one the GPS brings him to, shares a lot with Target. He’s on a timetable, but only because they’re in Nebraska on Christmas Eve. Come 6 p.m. the city shuts down, and won’t be open until the 26th. He should probably be grateful the U.S. doesn’t celebrate Boxing Day. Sam pulls off onto a small residential road instead, taking his foot off the gas, letting the Impala roll slowly while he searches for another grocery store. If it shares a parking lot with a K-Mart, he’ll suck it up and fight the crowd.

      The store’s only a few miles away. His hopes run high as he gets closer. He’s still on a four lane road, but he passes a campus, and an independent music store. When he sees the Harvest Market sign in the distance, he knows it’s the type of place he’s looking for. A little out of the way, catering to college kids, where he’s sure to find beer and food that can be prepared using only a microwave.

      It turns out he’s not entirely correct, or college kids have changed a lot since his days. The inside is clean, with veneer floors, an extensive produce section, and classical music playing softly over the sound system. The giant letters high on the far wall read BEER, though, which is good enough for Sam to grab a cart.

      Sam stocks up on alcoholic provisions first. The essentials come next: coffee, cream, and sugar. Then all that’s left is to serpentine through the store, putting together two days worth of meals on the fly. He gets a bag of oranges for himself, a chocolate bar with candied almonds and marshmallows for Dean. Deciding to grab a box of Honey Bunches of Oats means he goes back to Dairy to exchange the cream for milk, then, also, picks up a carton of egg nog. Near the deli, he adds a rotisserie chicken, takeaway container of mashed potatoes, and prepared buttered green beans with crushed pecans. They’ll have to eat it tonight instead of tomorrow, but it’ll almost be a proper holiday meal.

      By the time there’s only one aisle he hasn’t been down, Sam is smiling widely. They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. It may not be true for everyone, but it certainly is for Dean. With the bakery fresh pumpkin pie sitting carefully on top, Sam’s sure to get Dean’s heart, and probably several other parts too.

      The last section is the seasonal aisle. Sam thinks to skip it, but sees that it’s already 25% off. There’s no harm in poking through the items, he thinks right before he lays eyes on it. It is a pre-baked gingerbread kit. Giddy with festive cheer, Sam tosses it in the cart, and heads to the bulk candy section again.

 

      Dean’s been out of the shower for over an hour, and pacing for the last five minutes, wondering what’s taking Sam so long. They splurged for a suite with a breakfast bar, couch, and writing table, but the extra furniture’s just getting in his way. Especially when his phone buzzes, and he vaults the couch to grab it off the bar.

 

_Come down and help with the bags_

_Be right there._

_BRT_

_What?_

_just come_

_;)_

_ >:(_

       

      Dean chuckles as he puts on his jacket. Their room is on the second floor, but as with most of the joints they stay in, the front door opens to the outside. The metal stairs ring with Dean’s heavy tread.

      “What took so long?”

      “It’s Christmas Eve.” Sam passes brown plastic bags from the back seat to Dean.

      “Did you buy the whole store?”

      “No. We’re going to have a real meal.”

      Dean grins. “With pie?”

      Sam considers stringing his brother along, but opts to bargain, “Yes, but only if you play along without bitching about it.”

      “Like sexy playing?”

      “Take those bags up. I’ve got the beer.”

      “Does that mean yes?”

      Sam turns Dean around, pushes him to get him moving, and follows him up to their room.

      Dean drops his bags on the counter, but Sam places his on the coffee table. Sam hides the bag with the gingerbread house under the couch while Dean searches for pie.

      “Don’t put the egg nog away, I’ve got the rum.” Sam says. He slides a case of beer onto the bar. “That can go in the fridge with the milk.”

      They put away the groceries for tomorrow, as much as they can in the little kitchenette. Sam directs what goes away, and what stays out for dinner. Dean looks lost as Sam begins preparing the food, so Sam tells him to set the table.

      “Fancy.” Dean smiles, opening up a small stack of Christmas themed paper plates.

      “Mmm.” Sam agrees, taste testing the freshly nuked green beans.

      They pile their plates with hunks of chicken, mounds of mash, and dripping, buttery, beans. Dean balances a roll on the plate’s lip, and stuffs another in his mouth. They sit together on the couch for dinner, watching _A Christmas Story_.

       

      Only rolls are left over, the credits are rolling in a small picture-in-picture as an ad assuring them that _A Christmas Story_ will be on again after these short messages plays. Dean’s slouched back with one foot on the table, and his solo cup of traditional nog balanced on his bent knee. Sam leans forward out of his brother’s arms to mix another drink for himself. Dean rubs Sam’s back, cranes his head to peek at the pie sitting on the counter, and speaks.

      “Think it’s time for pie.”

      “Only if you help.”

      “That sounds less sexy than it did earlier.”

      Sam holds up his finger for Dean to wait. He tries to grab the hidden bag, but can’t feel it blindly. Getting onto his knees, (“This is what I was thinking”) Sam finds it easily and brings it out for Dean to see with a little flourish.

      Dean inhales to tease Sam, except he can’t bring himself to be the Grinch, so he lets the breath out slowly. Licking his lips to buy time, Dean’s eyes shift from the bag with the gingerbread kit poking out the top, and sagging with extra bags of candy at the bottom, to Sam’s wide grin.

      “I’ve never done one before.”

      “Me either.” Sam beams. “The box says it has instructions.”

      Dean shrugs. “Alright.”

      They move to the circular writing table to spread out. Sam dumps the box carefully. Dean inspects the candy, popping a peppermint into his mouth.

      “Seriously?”

      Dean simply smiles back with sticky-wet lips. “How did you know to get extra?” He picks up one of the tiny bags that came with the kit.

      “Didn’t. Three types of candy didn’t sound like enough. There’s more than that in their picture.” Sam replies, spreading out the instructions.

      “Observant.”

      “Give me your knife.”

      Dean hands over the blade from his back pocket. They unwrap all the pieces, and pop holes in the sealed bags of candy, before finally slicing the tip off the icing bag. Dean gets his knife back to cut the box into a stand before they find the included base still inside; Sam turns the deflated grocery bag into a trash.

      “Okay. Says to pipe icing along the bottom, and one edge of a side wall, and along just the bottom of a peaked wall.”

      Holding a side wall up, Dean frowns. “Which edge is the bottom?”

      “I… don’t know.” Sam frowns back, taking the cookie from Dean, and inspecting it. “I think it’s just whatever side you want. Whichever you put icing on is the bottom.”

      Dean leaves the side wall to Sam. He pipes a line of frosting on the bottom of a peaked wall. “How far back do we want it?”

      Sam preps his side piece while pondering the question. “Do you want room for a walkway?”

      “Yeah. If we’re gonna do this, we gotta do it right.”

      “How about here?” Sam holds his piece in position, but doesn’t touch down until he gets the nod from his brother. “Okay, now your wall goes in front of mine. Careful. Don’t push hard. Make sure they’re flush. Good. Now, take my wall so I can grab the instructions again. Don’t push on it, we don’t want it shifting.”

      Dean’s stuck keeping the two pieces aligned. One of Dad’s hunter buddies had been fond of model airplanes, and Dean’s reminded of a weekend spent holding little plastic parts together, waiting for the glue to dry, light-headed from the fumes. Dean can’t remember what the man’s name was, but does recall he was gutted by a Wendigo. He wonders what happened to the bomber he helped put together.

      “Huh.” Sam shrugs at the instructions.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. Just don’t move.”

      “Tell me.”

      “If I let you have the pie while we work, you can’t be mad.”

      Dean glares.

      “You’ve got to hold them together for seven minutes.”

      “Why me? Your arms aren’t broken!”

      “I’ve got the instructions!”

      Dean’s expression calls Sam out better than any words.

      “I’ll get you pie.” Sam leaves the table for the kitchenette.

      “Warm it up, and I want whipped cream on it!”    

      Regardless of what he said, Sam takes a turn holding the next wall on so Dean can eat his pie, and another two pieces of candy. Dean gets stuck with the last wall, and the roof, to stop him from eating all their materials before they decorate.

 

      They take a break once the bare house is assembled; Dean pops a gum drop in his mouth before grabbing a beer. Sitting on the couch, as soft as a feather bed compared to the chairs, they switch the channel, and end up watching all of _The Muppet Christmas Carol._

      “I was thinking you can do the roof, and I can do the front yard.” Dean tries to sound nonchalant, as if Sam wouldn’t be able to catch it.

      “Been thinking about it the whole movie?”

      Dean playfully nudges Sam. “I got some ideas.”

      “Me too.”

      Back at the table, they take turns with the icing. The first row of generic M&M’s slide down and stick in the shingle loops on Sam’s roof. Dean takes the support away from his candy cane mailbox too soon. It falls over onto the table and breaks.

      “I don’t know how people can stand to make those multistory, hundred pound gingerbread mansions.” Dean takes a sip of his beer while he holds the replacement cane in place.

      “I want to try to make a brick pattern on the walls.”

      “How?”

      “With the frosting. It’ll be easy, you just draw horizontal lines, and then, like, staggered vertical ones.”

      “Brick, huh? Our house is gonna be classy as fuck.”

      “It’ll hog the icing while I do it.”

      “I can crush jelly beans for the walkway.”

      Sam starts on the back wall. Dean tries the bottom of his beer bottle to squish the jelly beans, but has better luck with his thumb.

      “You’ve been holding that candy cane for fifteen minutes.”

      “I’ll let it go when I get the icing. They only give you four teeny candy canes.”

      “Shit. I just realized the windows are gonna look weird, like the masons gave up on four bricks.”

      “You can cut the sour ribbon to make curtains.”

      “Oh! Or shutters! Good thinking”

      Sam gives Dean his turn between each side.

      “You should make a wreath with those little round dots”

      “I am not holding a dozen tiny balls up until they dry. My fingers are already stained from the roof. But I could make one with a gum drop.”

      “If you want to cut out the center, you can get the knife out of my pocket.”

      Sam brushes his cheek against Dean’s shoulder while he fishes out the blade. He turns his head and kisses the spot. Dean grins, before puckering up. Sam gives him a delicate peck, licking the peppermint taste from his own lips when he pulls away.

      Dean glues two round mints on their sides.

      “What’s that?”

      “You’ll see.”

      The gummy prefers it’s original shape more than the way Sam stretches it, and rubber bands back as soon as he lets go. He’s only frustrated for a moment before he starts over with a new one, cutting the wider base off, and twisting the tip of the blade in the disc’s center to make a wreath.

      Dean’s mints are now topped with a second one. Sam thinks they’re snowmen; not a bad idea, but he would’ve used the white gumdrops. Sam puts the wreath on the door, his brick lines too dry to put it above the door.

      “Alright!” Dean announces.

      Sam stops spacing out while waiting for the wreath to affix, and looks at the candy yard.

      Dean points at the mint-men. “You and me.” He points at the broken candy cane staff on the ground behind the men, with its own mint head. “Saving people.” He points to three white gumdrops on the other side of the paved walkway. “Hunting Things.” Then points at the whole house. “The Family Business.”

      “Shouldn’t I be three mints tall?” Sam teases.

      “I was going to, but when I tested it, it looked like I’d been beheaded.” He picks up the icing, contemplating. “I’m going to give the ghosts eyes.”

      Sam sits back, admiring their work. “We coulda been architects.”

      “Is that the equivalent? Wouldn’t it be landscapers?”

      “Habitats for Humanity. Fairly certain they do all that stuff.”

      “Think we do enough for humanity.”

      Sam stretches with a yawn, then glances at the clock. “I’m ready for bed.”

      “We need to clean up first.”

      “In the morning.”

      “No. I don’t want to wake up and have chores to do.”

      “Fine.”

      When everything’s put away, and Dean’s wiping down the table, Sam kicks off his boots then collapses on the nearest bed. He listens to Dean shuffling around, finishing tidying up, and getting ready for bed.

     

      Dean shakes Sam awake.

      “Five more minutes”

      “It's only been five minutes.” Dean stands over him in an old band shirt, and boxers. “Brush your teeth at least.”

      Grumbling, Sam gets up, and gets himself ready to go to sleep. When he comes out of the bathroom, Dean’s turned the TV so they can see it from the beds, and he’s flipping through channels. Asking for a double is an old habit, though there are days when it’s a blessing, tonight, Sam slides under the covers, and snuggles into Dean.

      “What’re you looking for?”

      “HBO. They’re playing Jack Frost at 1.”

      Sam drifts to sleep before the first death.


	11. Eleventh Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen.  
> Ostentatious author.

      Dean Winchester wasn’t a religious man; didn’t hold by the, often contradictory, gospels. When to stand, or cross himself in Mass remained a mystery to him. He could recite fifty different exorcisms though he couldn’t deliver the first line of any creed. He’d never been to Sunday School, or memorized lessons from any catechism.

      As a young man, Dean learned to put his faith only in the tangible, solid, presence of his brother, Sam. Damning himself in the eyes of God and other men, Dean revered Sam, and raised him to divinity.

      In the quiet of abandoned houses, amongst the turbulence of thin walled, budget motels, he sank to idolatry. On bended knee, Dean laid out his golden calf, and covered him in adulation. His tongue canonized olive skin, anointing every metre of smooth expanse, and luscious folds. With fingers tangled in silken hair, Dean drank of the font of life, devoured hallowed lips. Coming unto his deity, he adored with his whole body, and whispered gasps of praise in exultation.

      No, Dean wasn’t a religious man, but he knew how to worship.


	12. Twelfth Day of Wincestmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen.  
> PDA.  
> First time.  
> No set time.

      Teal vinyl groaned as Dean shifted in the booth for the third time in as many minutes, nodding at the waitress that refilled their coffee cups. Dean drug his warmed mug across the speckled Formica, and gripped it tightly in both hands. Sam sat across from him, barely raising his eyes from the tablet as he dumped in another sugar packet and two creams.

      Sam stirred twice, and placed the spoon on his napkin. He wrapped the white, ceramic mug in his right hand, middle and ring fingers slipped behind the handle, index and pinky resting on either side of the joint, thumb hidden from Dean’s view. Sam raised the cup to his lips, blowing the slow rise of steam away before taking a drink.

      With his left hand, Sam flicked up on the screen that hogged all of his attention, tapping to stop when something caught his attention. He pinched his index and thumb together, and spread them apart, zooming in on an image. Lifting his thumb, he slid the tip of his pointer across the glass to re-center the photo.

      Sam huffed at what he saw, startling Dean from his trance. Dean drew his mug to his lips, watching as Sam used both hands to type swiftly into a search bar. The coffee burned the tip of Dean’s tongue. While Sam scrolled through the results, Dean put his cup down, then pressed sweaty palms flat against the cool laminate. He chewed on his bottom lip, and began drumming his fingers. Patience was not a virtue anyone accused the elder Winchester of having which at least explained why Sam sat there oblivious through all the fidgeting.

      _This is stupid_ , Dean thought, watching Sam’s right hand resting freely on the tabletop. Transfiguring the tightness in his chest to butterflies in his stomach, he edged his left hand slowly across the smooth surface. A quarter of the way there, Sam reached for his coffee. Dean jerked back, covering the motion by rolling into a wide armed stretch.

      With furrowed brow, Sam glanced across at Dean. Their eyes met, and both quickly looked away. Dean gazed out the large open window on his right. He clenched fists at his sides on the bench seat. He glimpsed Sam out of the corner of his eye, thinking he saw a small grin, Dean focused on the traffic passing on the other side of the little parking lot.

      “Sorry to bother,” the waitress said in a tone that did not agree with her words, “but my manager says you’ve got to get more than coffee to keep the table, and the wifi.“

      Dean and Sam shared a look, different from the one of a moment ago. They held an entire conversation using only the slightest changes of expression.

      _Are you hungry?_ Dean asked.

      _Not starving, but I could eat. You?_ Sam replied.

      _Same._

      _I can get wifi anywhere, order if you’ll actually eat. Otherwise, let’s just go back to the motel._

      "I’ll take a farmer’s breakfast, bacon, sunny side up, white toast.” Dean’s eyes lingered on Sam’s face before he turned to toss a smile server side.

      “Oatmeal with seasonal fruit, and a small milk, please.”

      The waitress finished scribbling their order down, and walked off with a more friendly manner. Sam returned to his research; Dean to his torment.

      In the distraction, Dean’s hands had returned to the table’s surface, but a hint closer to Sam. His own unconscious movement briefly bolstered his confidence. Unfortunately, the demanding voice that always second guessed everything he did, spoke up. It questioned the sanity of making such an overt gesture smack in the middle of the Bible Belt. What was he trying to start? It barraged him with all the niggling doubts of the night before. How could he be sure what was whispered in the grey light of dusk had made it through to the light of day? What type of man takes advantage of his brother’s emotional vulnerability? After such a close miss he’d been just as off guard, he fired back.

      Dean was lost in his internal struggle for a full minute before the heavy clunk of Sam’s cup forced him to see. With nervous excitement, Dean noticed that Sam had closed the gap a bit. After putting the cup down, Sam placed his hand with ease halfway across the table. Unless deceived by hope, Dean knew it for the gentle permission Sam intended it to be.

      Dean slid his left hand toward where Sam’s right waited. Sam, blessedly, kept his eyes on his tablet, even if Dean could feel all of Sam’s attention on himself. Dean’s hand shook when he lifted it half an inch. He put it back on the table. Instead, he extended his trembling pinky, and gently pet the side of Sam’s twice. Dean stilled, stopping with their pinkies held abreast. Sam returned the caress, then went a step further, entwining Dean’s little finger with his own, giving a quick squeeze for reassurance.

      The tension melted from Dean, and he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. With a small advance across the bridge, he hoped future open displays of affection would present less of a breakdown. He managed not to balk when he caught Sam sneaking a glance at him. Sam returned his eyes to his tablet, the pinkness in his ears mirroring the heat Dean felt in his own cheeks. Dean tried to keep his smile from looking too manic. He watched Sam, too, struggle to keep his smile reasonable.

      Sam’s pink tongue wet his red lips, “So. Get this..”


End file.
